


screaming in the dark, i howl when we’re apart

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOS Spoilers, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Mild Gore, POV Animal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was home.  He was at Castle Black.  Nothing else mattered.  When Jon said <i>with me</i>, Ghost nearly howled.  Those words were where he belonged, Jon always asking, never demanding, and he ran with him back to the Wall, ran because he could and he wanted to, not because he had to go east, because he had to find Castle Black; he ran because Jon did, and he ran home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	screaming in the dark, i howl when we’re apart

**Author's Note:**

> A few small discrepancies —
> 
> i. This is told through Ghost’s point of view, and so I’ve taken quite a few liberties, considering we never see what he was up to, so don’t yell at me.
> 
> ii. So, Ghost is kind of very—human-like in this, just in his voice, not really in his actions, but I wanted to take the kind of bond that Bran and Summer do because I feel like Summer really and truly understands a lot of what Bran says and does and why, and so I put that into Jon and Ghost since I have a feeling they’re going to end up somewhat like that (I’ve only just finish asos, so if they do end up like that, don’t spoil it for me.)
> 
> iii. Please don’t hate on me for the Ygritte bashing. While that is my point of view leaking into Ghost’s, I do also believe that he didn’t like her, so I’m not trying to directly hate on her.
> 
> iv. If you recognize any italicized dialogue, that’s because it’s taken directly from the book, so this is essentially another disclaimer.

Ghost settled only when he had run to where the fires did not burn, where the wildlings would not cross beyond.  He did not want to be found as he sought out somewhere to lie out of sight from the terrors that the darkness of the wilderness beyond the Wall held.  When he closed his red eyes, he could see only Jon’s face, and he huffed out a breath that turned to white mist in the air, opening his eyes again and baring his teeth at nothing.  He curled his tail around him, letting it settle over his nose, and he listened to his heart like Grey Wind had showed him how to, his older brother, the only one he’d truly trusted.  He loved his brothers and sisters each, but Grey Wind had not shunned him as Shaggy and Lady had.  He had been so small, and _white_ , but Grey Wind showed him how to lie down and listen to his heart, to wait until it was slow before he closed his eyes again.  And, when he did, Jon’s face didn’t hurt as much, but his shoulder did, where that red woman, the one with the growly name, Ygritte, had hit him.  _Go somewhere else, wolf.  Jon Snow is mine tonight._   He hated her voice and her words, he hated that she had taken Jon from him.  He opened his eyes again, red staring out at the world of white, and he listened to his heart again, pretending his big brother was next to him, his head leaning against Ghost’s, showing him how to be okay.

 

Sometimes, when he dreamt, he thought of Jon’s friend, the man in black that he’d begun to trust, and he thought of what he’d said to him, the night before Ghost helped Jon kill him, _You have to do this for me, Ghost, you have to help him.  He can’t do it alone.  Stay with him always.  Do not let him stray, Ghost._   Qhorin, he remembered suddenly, he had liked Qhorin, just like he had liked the fat one, Samwell, and now he didn’t even have Jon.

 

When his red eyes saw no longer, he dreamt of that night, of the cold tunnel where Qhorin took first watch, glancing over at Jon while he slept every once in a while, and, sometimes, looking into the depths of Ghost’s eyes.  No one was ever brave enough to look at his eyes, except Qhorin, and Sam sometimes, when he was scared and didn’t know where else to look, and that was why Ghost had liked him initially.  When Jon had first introduced Qhorin to him, the big man in black had stared right into his eyes and his mouth had quirked a little, like humans did when they were fighting a smile, like Jon never did when he was alone with Ghost, and then he’d reached out one of his big gloved hands, and Ghost had immediately pushed his snout into his palm, allowing him to be Jon’s friend.  He knew Jon needed friends, and though he thought the fat one was funny and slow, he liked him, just as he liked this big man in black.  He remembered Jon’s face, how shocked he’d been, but the next time, he’d noticed Qhorin looking at Ghost’s eyes, and Jon had smiled.

 

That night, when Qhorin kept looking at his red eyes, Ghost had finally stood and stretched, shaking himself a little before padding over to where Qhorin sat.  He’d looked at him for a few moments, deciding, before he sat down on his haunches next to him and stared unblinkingly into Qhorin’s eyes.  _You have to do this for me, Ghost,_ Qhorin said, his voice soft, and Ghost blinked, _you have to help him._ Ghost looked over his shoulder at Jon, and, when he looked back, Qhorin was nodding.  _He can’t do it alone.  Stay with him always.  Do not let him stray, Ghost._   In the morning, when the big man in black had asked Jon if his sword was sharp and told him not to balk, Ghost had put his head down in the snow and closed his eyes.  They had left fat Sam, and he had taken Jon’s smiles with him, and now they would leave Qhorin in black, and he would take Jon’s hope.  And now Jon had left him, but Ghost tried to take nothing but himself, tried to leave Jon with everything he’d ever given him.  He hated how Jon looked when he thought no one saw him, when he knew only his direwolf was near, hated those looks because he knew it was this white world that had done it to him, that had taken everything that was warm about Jon, everything he had dreamed of in the big stone place, in Jon’s home.  Winterfell, the word came back to him suddenly, and he shifted minutely in his slumber, restless.  He missed Winterfell, he and Jon both.

 

As he’d walked by Jon’s side that morning when they followed the wildlings, he’d wanted only to disappear, just for a few moments, to find something to make himself sick.  He didn’t want the taste of the big man in black’s blood in his mouth.  Somehow, Jon had known, and Ghost had stayed close to him so that Jon’s fingers were constantly tangled in his white fur, massaging lightly, stroking, and it had calmed him enough so that he wasn’t thinking, thinking, _thinking_.

 

Dawn came slowly, and, with it, a rumbling of hunger in his empty belly.  He woke with a silent yawn, massive jaws spreading wide and his breath misting white in front of him.  He snapped at the mist, and it scattered, but he stayed only a moment longer before loping off farther into the woods.  He didn’t want to see the red woman today with her angry fists and harsh words, _Go somewhere else, wolf.  Jon Snow is mine tonight._ He snapped at the air as he ran, and a growl ripped through him.  Jon Snow was his, and the red woman was taking him.

 

When Ghost made his kill, he watched its blood run red and steaming and pretended it was her hair as he attacked it, seeking out the meat, pretended it was her body he took to shreds.  He had never trusted anyone less, expect maybe those golden people that had made Jon stay outside.  He liked the little one, though, the one that had called Jon a bastard and himself a dwarf.  He had watched them from the shadows as Jon stopped hacking at the scarecrow that was really quite funny looking and talked to the little dwarf man, and he had watched them on the way to the Wall, listened to their conversations out of sight, and he had liked the small golden man, but not his family, especially not when they had hurt Summer’s skin, his Bran.  He wondered, as he swallowed, his muzzle dripping crimson, he wondered when Jon would discover that Ghost was his fur and that Jon was Ghost’s skin.  He knew Summer knew, and sometimes, when he dreamt, he felt Bran inside Summer.  Sometimes, he felt little Arya inside Nymeria, too, as his sister prowled amongst the common wolves, attacking whomever she pleased.  Little Arya did not know, though, and even Nymeria did not understand, but still they moved within each other.  He had felt Jon inside him only once, briefly, when the eagle had attacked, and he had felt himself in Jon, had felt the pain.  He didn’t count the dream; even Summer didn’t count the dreams.  His brother was waiting for Bran to learn to slip into his fur with his eyes open.

 

He found a drink at a small stream, and he watched the blood run from his muzzle, stared at his reflection and saw _white_.  He belonged in this wilderness beyond the Wall, he knew, but he missed his family, he missed his Jon.

 

It was dark when Jon found him, and he almost growled at the red woman’s scent, but he remained silent instead, staring up at the bright sky with his red eyes.  _Do you have names for them as well?_ Jon asked him, and Ghost forgave him the moment he knelt before him.  He was Jon’s equal on this level, Jon who had never dared speak to him from above, standing high and towering over him like he was just a wolf because Jon knew.  Qhorin had treated him that way, as well, and the fat one; they both knelt when they talked to him, though Sam hardly did more than stutter when Ghost was near.  He licked Jon’s face when he scratched him on the neck, tasting the scar where the eagle had clawed at him, and Jon smiled.  There was something sad in his dark eyes, and Ghost pushed his snout against his cheek, blinking.  _Ghost,_ Jon whispered his name, and Ghost found himself wanting to howl, as he never did, _on the morrow we go over.  There’s no steps here, no cage-and-crane, no way for me to get you to the other side.  We have to part.  Do you understand?_

It was the red woman’s fault, he knew.  Ghost’s rich red eyes felt warm suddenly, and he nuzzled against Jon’s neck, invading his space, wanting to not understand.  Jon was sending him away; what had he done?  Was he being punished for trying to bite Ygritte?  Was Jon replacing him with that wildling?  _You cannot come with me,_ Jon said as he took Ghost’s head in his hands and stared at him, tried to say what he could not with his eyes, and Ghost understood.  He was not being punished, he was Jon and Jon was Qhorin.  He had to listen, and he had to help him.  _He can’t do this alone,_ he heard Qhorin say, and he stared back at Jon, _Do not let him stray_.  He would do whatever Jon asked of him, he would not balk.

 

_You have to go to Castle Black.  Do you understand?  Castle Black.  Can you find it?  The way home?  Just follow the ice, east and east, into the sun, and you’ll find it.  They will know you at Castle Black, and maybe your coming will warn them.  I will meet you again at Castle Black, but you have to get there by yourself.  We must each hunt alone for a time.  Alone._

_Alone,_ the word rung in Ghost’s ears, and he knew what he had to do.  He must not balk, even if it meant leaving Jon alone, even if it meant going against what Qhorin had made him promise, even if it meant leaving Jon with that vile red woman, even if it meant hunting _alone_.  _East_ , Jon had said, _into the sun_ , that was all he needed.  He twisted out of his skin’s grasp even as it made his heart thud, and he thought of Grey Wind, he thought of how his big brother would be brave, and he raced away, not looking back.  He could not let Jon think he might return.  He had to help him.  _Castle Black_ , Jon had said, _home_.

 

\--

 

When the sun was high the next day, Ghost loped through the forest and picked his way toward the Wall.  He had run through the night until he’d found the white stone, and then he’d gone back into the forest and slept, waking in the morning to traverse through the wilderness, but always close.  And when the sun was high, he crept out of the forest and stared at the Wall, stared until he saw them, little black specks climbing up.  He ran a few miles toward them before he stopped, sitting on his haunches and watching.  The night was dark and the stars were bright before he started east again.  Jon had not fallen.

 

\--

 

On the sixth moon since he’d started east, Ghost killed a deer, leaping silent as death through the trees and claiming it.  That was when the common wolves found him, four of them with five eyes behind them.  He ignored them at first, content to fill his belly, but then one of them got too close and snapped, his small jaws closing around air, and Ghost bared his bloody teeth at him, showed him how much bigger he was.  The cocky wolf approached still, growling, and Ghost stood from his kill, towered over him and enveloped him in shadow, though he never uttered a sound.

 

When the wolf leapt, he opened his mouth and snatched his throat out of midair.  The wolf died as the others descended, and Ghost fought them off, but there were three hidden eyes behind the five, and they attacked him, relentless, until he was dripping from a wound in his side and his front left leg was bitten badly.  There were still too many, even after he’d killed three of them, and he retreated, limping, backing away from their cacophony of snarls and howls.  His family was so far away, and he was alone.  _Alone,_ Jon said in his head, and Ghost trembled and sunk into the snow and howled, long and low and sad.

 

The wolves listened to his song and stopped.  He was not one of them, they realized, and he was alone.  He was not a threat, and so they claimed his kill and left him alone, one wolf prowling amongst the others to watch him, switching with one of his pack brothers every so often.  When they left, Ghost licked his wounds and listened to his heart.

 

That night, as he slumbered, he dreamt of Summer, and he felt Bran.  He watched his brother, listening to the double thump of his heart, skin and fur as one, and he watched as he attacked a group of men at Bran’s command.  Summer tore out a man’s throat, opened his skin and made him bleed, and then he turned and snarled, attacking another.  He felled that man and stood on his chest, blood turning his muzzle sticky and dark, and he watched as Summer looked up and saw Jon.

 

Ghost awoke from his sleep with a snarl, startling himself from the snow and injuring his leg as he ran.  He ignored the sharp stabs of pain, though.  Jon was in danger.

 

He ran and ran, hard and fast, his breath puffing white in front of him until he was at the Wall, whining as he slammed his body against it.  Someone would listen, someone would come open a door for him like Jon had when he’d known something was wrong with the man Jon took orders from, the Old Bear they called him, someone would let him through this accursed Wall, and he would find Jon.

 

He hit the shoulder the red woman had punched, and he whimpered, slumping against the Wall.  It didn’t hurt anymore, but it reminded him of her, of Jon’s face, shocked and angry, his dark eyes stormy.  He hadn’t said anything, just looked at Ghost as though he’d tried to bite _him_ and not the red woman, and it was her words that drove him away, _Go somewhere else, wolf.  Jon Snow is mine tonight_ , her words and Jon’s face.

 

He closed his red eyes and listened to his heart, and his brother’s face appeared before him again, sprinting from the massacre.  He stopped only once, looking north, and he could feel Summer within him, assuring him.  He waited until he could see Jon running on his horse, and then Summer fled as Bran fled him, and Ghost opened his eyes, staring up at the white stone.

 

Ghost stayed there that night, curled up against the Wall, and he did not move the next day either, content to rest and lick his side.  When he dreamt the next night, he dreamt of his big brother and saw him slumbering in a strange bed with a familiar hand curled loosely in his fur.  There were grey walls around them, and Ghost recognized them as tent walls, like the wildlings had.  Grey Wind stirred and shifted minutely, and the familiar hand did the same.  Ghost looked up along the arm until he found a face, and he found Jon’s older brother, Robb.  Jon had always loved his brother, as Ghost loved his, and he’d always trusted Robb, had seen something in him that he saw in Grey Wind.  Robb took Jon in when others glared at him, and he’d always knelt before Ghost and looked him in the eye if he wished to talk to him, like he did with Grey Wind.  He missed Robb, he realized, just as he missed his big brother.

 

\--

 

 _Go somewhere else, wolf.  Jon Snow is mine tonight._   Ghost shook awake, his fur standing on end.  The red woman’s voice was on a constant loop in his head, and he could not rid himself of her.  It was her fault that he was here, lost in the wilderness beyond the Wall, always going east.

 

It had been five moons since he’d been attacked, and he’d been on the move for the last three.  He kept going east, always kept the Wall within a few minutes’ run, but he was so hungry and so tired.  He just wanted to sleep, to curl up in the snow and never get up.  Everytime he started to, though, he thought of fat Sam, and he knew that was what Sam would do, and he made himself get up everytime and continue on.  He slept only a few hours here and there, and he didn’t run anymore.  He jogged sometimes, but mostly he just walked through the forest, exhausted.

 

Ghost wasn’t on his feet for more than a few hours, though, before he sunk back into the snow, shaking.  He was so tired.  Just a little longer, and then he would keep going, he just needed to rest.

 

When he dreamt of Grey Wind, there was nothing but blood and fury, and then there was nothing but blackness, and he ran from his slumber, ran until the moon turned into a heatless sun, ran until the sun turned into a lifeless moon, and then he collapsed.  His brother was dead.

 

\--

 

When Ghost awoke next, it had been two moons, and he was warm.  He stirred slowly, wary, but the fire made fear slip through his fur, and he watched it with red eyes, listening to the world around him.  When he heard nothing after long minutes of waiting, he slowly rose, and he studied the large beast, an elk, on the other side of the fire for another minute before he decided it was asleep.  When he turned, though, there was a tall man behind him, and Ghost showed him his teeth, but the man brushed past him, unperturbed.  _You have a brother, wolf,_ the man said, and Ghost let his lips slide back over his teeth, watching the man with unblinking red eyes.  _The cripple boy called him Summer._ Ghost’s ears pricked up at the name of his younger brother, and he stepped forward carefully, still watching the man.  _He was with some fat boy, Samwell Tarly, but he’s gone now with that wildling girl of his, Gilly._   Ghost turned away just as the man spoke a last time, _Your brother should only be a few hours away.  I left a rabbit outside for you._

True to his word, the rabbit was waiting, and Ghost ate quickly, his heart thudding.  Summer was near, and Sam had been with this man, with Gilly.  He remembered her and the baby smell in her belly, remembered how afraid she’d been of him.  Sam was alive, and so was Summer.

 

When he was done with the rabbit, Ghost loped off silently into the forest, following his brother’s scent.  He’d marked a tree just at the edge of the forest, as he was wont to do, and Ghost sniffed at it before slipping into the wilderness.  He heard an unfamiliar voice before long, and he slowed, following until he saw Summer padding along behind Bran in his little basket with the half-giant that Ghost liked to scare sometimes.  He didn’t do it often, not like Shaggy did, especially because he liked the half-giant for taking care of his brother’s skin, but sometimes, when he was bored, he slipped out of shadows and stared at him with his red eyes so that the half-giant shouted and stumbled.  He didn’t want to scare him now, and so he took off at a sprint again, running far past them until he could slip out of the trees and into their path.  He sat on his haunches and howled, and he knew Summer would understand.  His brothers and sisters had not heard his song many times, but they knew it, and Summer answered.

 

He heard Bran’s voice, _what is it,_ panicky, but he waited instead of approaching, and Summer came within view first, running toward him.  He voiced his happiness as Ghost stood and met him, rubbing along his brother and sniffing at him.  He was different, but he was okay.  The little frog boy came next, sneaking, but Ghost saw him and blinked at him.  _Bran, it’s a direwolf!_ he cried, and then the little frog girl came forward, the half-giant and Bran behind her.  _Ghost!_ Bran shrieked.

 

He ignored them, though, turning instead to Summer again, nudging him with his snout.  Summer understood, and he sat, head tipping up to the sky in a sorrowful howl.  Grey Wind was truly dead, and he had felt it as well.  Ghost sat, though he did not join his voice with Summer’s.  He mourned silently, staring up at the grey sky.  He mourned for his brother, and he mourned for Jon, wherever he might be.

 

\--

 

The sun was coming up, and Ghost was slowly waking when he heard it, _where are you_ , the faintest whisper through his fur, but he felt it, heard it, and knew it was Jon.  He lifted his head as it sang through him, and he knew that he was close.  It was a thought to Jon, but it was something else entirely to Ghost.  He was getting closer, he would be home soon.

 

And so, in the coming days, he slept little and trekked much, not running, but not walking either, an easy jog to keep him warm but also to cover distance.  As he traveled, he could feel more and more of Jon, his fear, the cold that seeped into his bones, the darkness that surrounded him constantly, and he didn’t know what any of it meant but that Jon might be trapped somewhere, somewhere that Ghost wasn’t, and he couldn’t help him.  Sometimes, when Jon’s fear was his own, he ran.

 

And then, suddenly, one day it was gone, instead replaced by confusion and uncertainty, but it was only a few hours of slow running before it came again, fear deep and cold in Jon’s bones until Ghost was sprinting.  He never saw the wolf.

 

\--

 

Daylight and starlight flickered by in a haze of slowly blinking red eyes, white fur rising and falling with each heavy, aching breath.  Ghost saw the moon four times, and then he condemned himself to death.  He could not move from this warm grass, surrounded by sunshine, with steam rolling off the heated pools, and the heart tree looking down on him.  He was home, and he closed his eyes to die.

 

A war horn sounded somewhere in the deep.  Ghost opened his eyes, and his heart thudded, _thump, thump_ in his ears.  He listened to it, and he thought of Grey Wind.  Robb was dead now, he knew, and so was his brother.

 

But Jon was not.

 

The forest rang with the screams of wildlings, with their stamping feet and wild ways of battle.

 

Ghost lurched to his feet.  He was not bleeding, he noticed, but his side hurt terribly where he’d been wounded that time before.  He took a moment to breathe, to watch the white mist form, and he snapped at it weakly, thinking of how Jon would laugh at him whenever he did that, whenever he chased the mist his breath gave.

 

A voice echoed in his head, and he closed his eyes.  He could not bear it if the red woman found him now.  He could not.

 

_You have to do this for me, Ghost, you have to help him._

_He can’t do it alone._

_Stay with him always.  Do not let him stray, Ghost._

He would find his skin.

 

\--

 

He was hungry, hungrier than he’d been when the big man with the elk found him.  He thought of the elk, proud and defiant, and his mouth watered.  He thought of the blood, how he’d pretended it was the red woman that time, and his empty belly rumbled angrily.  Something stirred in him, and Ghost pricked his ears, listening to the wind.  _Ghost?_   He could feel Jon inside him.  He turned, loping through the trees until he saw a break where the wildlings had fought, the killing ground, miles away from the Wall.  Jon had spoken to the heart tree here, just at the edge of the empty miles, and he slowed as he reached the edge, listening.  The wind did not speak, but Ghost padded out of the trees, and then it screamed, _Ghost!_

Ghost turned his hard sharply, disbelieving.  Jon stood there, agape, and Ghost knew he was not dreaming, knew that he was not delirious from hunger and lack of sleep, he _knew_ this was Jon.  He leapt into a run, sprinting across the killing ground, away from the trees, and he jumped at Jon, knocking him clean off his feet.  He made no sound, as Jon was so used to, but he took his forearm between his big jaws, showing his affection.  Jon laughed and grabbed at him, _Gods, wolf, where have you been?  I thought you’d died on me, like Robb and Ygritte and all the rest.  I’ve had no sense of you, not since I climbed the Wall, not even in my dreams._ Ghost just wet his face with his tongue, tasting the old scar of the eagle, and burrowing against Jon.

 

He was home.  He was at Castle Black.  Nothing else mattered.  When Jon said _with me_ , Ghost nearly howled.  Those words were where he belonged, Jon always asking, never demanding, and he ran with him back to the Wall, ran because he could and he wanted to, not because he had to go east, because he had to find Castle Black; he ran because Jon did, and he ran home.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just finished ASOS last night, and I was on the last Jon chapter, two pages before Ghost’s return, and I started sobbing because Jon was beyond the Wall, and I was like, holy shit, this is it. I had to stop reading for a while, actually, I couldn’t even see, haha. I’m crazy, I know. But anyway, I guess this was like a small break before I finish up the Kit/Richard sequel, and it’s been in my head a while anyway, so that’s that. Leave your thoughts!


End file.
